


hysteria

by princehal



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock BBC
Genre: Angst, Spoilers for Season 3, TW: Drug Abuse, TW: Self Harm, The Sign of Three, and sherlock alone, post wedding angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 23:11:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princehal/pseuds/princehal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>based on this prompt: "can you write about sherlock the night of the wedding??? where he's really angsty, maybe he gets drunk and loud and mrs hudson calls up john (or miecroft or lestrade idec) for help because he wont listen to her and then idk see what happens (preferably no ships or anything, just angst and angst and someone comforting sherlock because when does that ever happen)"</p><p>"The night was dense, and dark, and hollow. The stars spread out across the vast sky seemed starkly remote, and beneath, bus and car and bike blurred past, lights glaring. Cold breath billowed from between the lips of passersby, and footfalls echoed through emptying streets.</p><p>Sherlock flipped up his collar, turned his steps homeward"</p>
            </blockquote>





	hysteria

The night was dense, and dark, and hollow. The stars spread out across the vast sky seemed starkly remote, and beneath, bus and car and bike blurred past, lights glaring. Cold breath billowed from between the lips of passersby, and footfalls echoed through emptying streets.

Sherlock flipped up his collar, turned his steps homeward. A drunk couple, searching for an open shop on the way out of the station, a chronic liar passing on the escalator, a tired ex-accountant on his way home at the zebra crossing, a lost earring glimmering on the doorstep of 204, two 20 pence pieces by the curb, a crying girl at the window of 216 - love affair? no. abusive parents? no. running make-up, but not dressed - pyjamas, no jewellery, tinny music playing in background. sleepover gone wrong. 9.42pm, far too late, but she’s still waiting; first sleepover gone wrong: new curtains, newly moved in, new kid new school new friends - no friends.

No friends. 221b. Empty, empty, empty. Sherlock slammed the door shut behind him, flung his coat and scarf aside. Drew the curtains. He would not be waiting. Illogical, pointless, the hallmark of the lonely and the afraid.

He was neither. He was neither. He spun on the spot, ran a hand through his hair - distractions. Work, something, anything.   
  
Anything.

++++

When Mrs Hudson unlocked the door some hours later, she was still humming Sherlock’s waltz. “Thank you, pet!”- this to the over anxious cabbie, insistent on waiting to see she made it inside alright. Smiling to herself, she hung her keys on their peg, thinking about maybe a hot water bottle, maybe a nice cup of tea, definitely getting out of these bloody shoes…

Out of habit more than anything, she glanced up the stairs on her way by, spotted the light shining through the glass door pane. Sherlock was still up then - they had wondered where he disappeared too, although she wasn’t really surprised. He’d lasted a long time but all those people, it wasn’t really his thing. John had seemed quite sad though, that was a shame. She shook her head, neat curls springing. Silly Sherlock. He could probably do with a cup of tea, and maybe a biscuit, and she could have a word with him, too…

A few minutes later, feet ensconced safely in fluffy slippers, she padded up the stairs, tray loaded with a small selection of biscuits, and tea with no sugar. It was late, after all. “Sherlock?” She tapped on the door. Silence. No, wait a second- that was a funny sound. “Sherlock? Oh, dear, I’m just going to come in, I’m sure you’re decent, and I’ve seen it all before anyway pet, so-” She pushed the door in, wandered to the kitchen table, chattering into the air.

The lights in the kitchen were off, and the set the tray down, clicked the switch. “Oh Sherlock, it’s a mess in here! What’s all of this rubbish- you really are going to have to let me in here one day dear, I’ll-“. The table was cluttered, more so than usual. Paper cuttings, cups, an eyeball, tweezers, the innards of several pocket watches, an old gameboy, feathers, several large and ornate knives, a small, leather Moroccan case - needle, protruding from inside. Several tiny bottles, brown, the winking in the bright light.

"Sherlock? Oh my god-"

At the far end of the kitchen, slumped against cabinets, head lolling, eyes closed, Sherlock lay. His jacket and waistcoat were discarded on the floor, shirt open, tie pulled unceremoniously tight about his arm.

"Ohh-" Mrs Hudson’s voice was little more than a tremor, moving down the kitchen toward him. She picked up one of the bottles; benzoylmethylecgonine - cocaine. Bottle back on the table, she wiped her hands on her front, crouched in front of Sherlock’s prone body. A history with Mr Hudson had its uses after all, it would seem. Calm him down, tidy him up, put him to bed - this, she could do. First of all, removing the dirty rag of his tie-

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open. He stared, past her, at the door.

"… John?"

"Sweetheart, you’re confused. It’s Mrs Hudson pet, John’s not here. Can you hear me?"

His eyes slid over her, focused.

"Sherlock?"

He shook himself, and quite suddenly was on his feet, tie ripped off his arm.

For a moment, he stood stock still, stared at her. "I work alone, Mrs Hudson. If you could do me the favour of getting out, we’ll be very well. I work alone. Alone”. His tone was fast, glittering and acidic. “I’m working, I’m working. You’re in the way.”

Mrs Hudson stepped back, nervous, suddenly. “Sherlock, I know what you’ve been doing and it definitely isn’t working, not even by your book-“

“GET OUT”

Mrs Hudson had never heard Sherlock scream before. Later, she consoled herself with this fact for being the primary motivation behind her flight.

Alone, in his flat, in 221b, Sherlock swept an arm across the table, sending feathers and bottles and cups spinning onto the floor. It had been too long, so long since he’d been this awake, this clear. Clarity, it was, that’s what it was. The wood trembled beneath his fingertips and before his eyes, everything seemed brighter and better than before. Work work work something test something prove something - the eyeball rolled past his line of vision, plopped onto the floor. Out of eyeballs. He needed bodies, corpses, dummies, Molly would- no. Not anymore, not any reliance, not any people no no no no no. Self sufficiency; autarky. It made sense before and then it hurt but now, now it made sense again and it would be better, this way, no friends, not necessary. An ache shuddered somewhere in his ribcage.

_It wasn’t meant to hurt now._

"That’s the point, that’s the point that’s the point", he muttered between his teeth, turning on his heel, striding across the flat, snatching a knife from the table, hurling it into the opposite wall. It stuck, deep. _"The patient has a deep wound at the knee, and radiography is used to ensure there are-“_ Yes yes that would do, wounds, something, that was pain, logical, biological pain that stopped and started sensibly- rolling his shirt sleeve back, he wrenched the knife from the wall, flung himself into his chair. John’s chair stood stoically opposite, resolutely silent. John would’ve stopped this. John wouldn’t think this was a good idea. John wasn’t here, though, was he?

 _It’s the end of an era_ , as he gently, ever so gently slid the silver blade across his skin. Almost immediately, pearls of blood appeared, cool as they split and slid down his arm. What exactly was he testing? ….wounds pain logic depth severity no, what was - that wasn’t it. He pierced the edge of his thumb with the point of the knife, watched red ink course down his wrist. Pain, he still didn’t feel any. That’s it, test pain, isolated pain in …i

He was close, he could feel it, a new article, on blood loss versus cocaine intake or something about knives and eyeballs, or loss of appetite or maybe ash, another tobacco ash essay. No no, John had thought that was stupid. He glanced absently at his arm. Should probably stitch that up. He climbed to his feet, kicked John’s chair over, spotted a his matchbook on the floor underneath.

+++++

When Mycroft came in, Sherlock was leaning against John’s upturned chair, shirt bloodstained, face pale, before a blaze of flaming curtains.  
The apartment glittered and papers fluttered across the floor, caught on a cold breeze.

"You shot the windows out"

"Yes"

"You set fire to the curtains"

"Yes"

Mycroft walked gingerly across the desecrated state of the living room.

"My god, Sherlock"

"Yes"

"He’s not coming, Sherlock"

Sherlock turned his head slightly, his dark eyes meeting Mycroft’s.

"John?"

"He’s gone, Sherlock. Him and Mary. And you know, I’m not the best at this"

Sherlock visibly crumbled. Mycroft sighed, held out a hand. “Come on” Sherlock didn’t look up, but grabbed the proffered hand, stumbled to his feet.   
The two brothers stood, briefly hand in hand, amidst the littered glass and torn curtain. “We really ought to put that fire out”, murmured Mycroft.   
Sherlock blinked. “I think it’s too late to save anything” Mycroft tutted, pulled Sherlock from the window, pushed him into a kitchen chair. “No, Sherlock. This time, it is not too late. Ever the drama queen, little brother”.

At this point, Sherlock started laughing. [ _Hysteria: noun - behavior exhibiting overwhelming or unmanageable fear or emotional excess_ ]. Hallmark of the lonely and the afraid.

Mycroft sat opposite him, waiting, hands crossed neatly on the table. In the background, Mrs Hudson extinguished the flames, worried about the broken glass, the cold air, and Sherlock. Molly, still in her bright yellow dress, cleaned his arm with quick, deft movements, and Lestrade hovered in the doorway, uneasy, unhappy.

After half an hour, Mrs Hudson put the kettle on. Lestrade righted the upturned chair, emptied the little brown bottles down the drain.   
Mycroft sat opposite his little brother, waiting. Molly stood beside Sherlock, who was silent now, silent and still, her fingers entwined in his. She had been cleaning the incision on his thumb when he’d held on, wouldn’t let go.

The clock ticked into oblivion, and Sherlock Holmes’ friends sat with him into the hollow night.

"I’m fine"

Lestrade lifted his head, Molly jerked out of an almost slumber, and Mrs Hudson smiled sadly. Mycroft, resolute, shook his head. “Brother dear, that is a vast misinterpretation of the facts”

"I will _be_ fine”

"That’s ok - that’s good, Sherlock" Molly’s voice was small, nervous. "We’ll wait, then. Won’t we?" She looked at the assembled mass. "We can wait".

"Course we can", Lestrade nodded gruffly, from one of the armchairs. "Not going anywhere".

Mrs Hudson pushed a glass of water down the table to Sherlock. “You’re not getting rid of me again, dear”.

Sherlock glanced up, back down. Shut his eyes. Fell silent again.

"We are here, Sherlock. Tonight, and every other night". Mycroft’s stern, languorous voice rolled slowly over Sherlock as the last dregs of his energy slipped away, and he slipped, finally, into sleep. The last thing he heard, before he lost consciousness, was Mrs Hudson tiptoeing past. “I’ve got some spare blankets downstairs, I’m sure there are enough for everyone… “

No curtains no windows no waiting- and yet, new friends. Old friends. As far as first sleepovers go, it was definitely numbered amongst the odd ones. (But someone - someone never arrived).


End file.
